A Book of Spirits and Thieves

A year ago, they’d been covered in blood.

Other than that, the room was exactly the same. Even Connor’s art, including an unfinished oil painting propped on an easel by the window that looked out at the back garden of their Forest Hill estate, hadn’t been changed. It was a shrine to the firstborn Grayson. The perfect son. Talent, looks, intelligence—a triple threat. That was his big brother.

He went to the easel and looked at Connor’s last painting.

If there was one flaw the eldest Grayson kid had, it was vanity. His paintings were almost always self-portraits.

Connor had been painting this one as if it were a Renaissance commission by a king or a wealthy lord. Chiseled jawline, curved lips, straight nose, and hair the same shade of brownish-black as Farrell’s—only Connor wore his hair long, to his shoulders. Black eyebrows slashed over hazel eyes that, even though they were created with dabs of paint, seemed to pierce Farrell right through his soul.

“Miss you, brother,” he whispered. “Miss you bad.”

“I always thought it was his best piece.” A voice startled Farrell, and he turned to see that his mother had entered the room, her gaze fixed on the canvas. “It seems to come alive the more you stare at it, doesn’t it?”

He was surprised that she’d greeted him like this instead of with harsh words about his daring to enter her shrine to her lost firstborn. “He was talented,” he said.

“I know he would have become a very famous artist.” Her brows drew together a fraction, but then she shook her head a little and a cool smile stretched across her lips. Her attention remained on the canvas, as if she could reach in and stroke the hair back from her eldest son’s forehead. “One year. I can’t believe it’s been that long. I sensed his deep sadness after he and Mallory ended their relationship. If I’d known his heartbreak was so great, I would have made an appointment for him with my therapist. I could have stopped him from doing something so final.”

A trip to the therapist was his mother’s standard solution for any emotional conundrum.

“Why didn’t he finish it?” Farrell asked. There was no background behind the painted figure, only white canvas. Pencil marks showed what he’d meant to paint. A window. A sky. A wall.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He stared into his brother’s painted eyes. “The Connor Grayson I knew always finished what he started. The Connor I knew never would have taken his own life, either. He loved life.”

She looked at him sharply. “Until he didn’t love it anymore. We change just like the seasons change. He wasn’t any different.”

“Don’t you ever think there could be another explanation for what happened?”

“No,” she said with finality. “He was a sensitive artist who had his heart broken. He chose to take his own life when he fell into despair. Over the last year, I’ve accepted that that’s what happened. For you to question it . . .” Her lips pressed tightly together. “It’s too painful.”

Guilt cut through him. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t get along with his mother very well, but he didn’t want to hurt her. He crossed his arms over his bare chest and forced himself to change the subject away from something that was still so raw. “Dad spoke to me this morning.”

“About Adam?”

He nodded. “I tried talking to him. He’s upset.”

“I hope he’ll quickly make peace with what he saw at the meeting.”

“He will,” Farrell said with a confidence he didn’t completely feel.

“Good.”

This was, officially, the single longest conversation he’d had with his mother in well over a year. May as well go for a lifetime record, he thought. “Dad also told me that you two want me to start thinking about the future,” he said. “And I agree. I have to decide about school. Either I enroll somewhere and take some courses, or I start working for him.”

If Farrell didn’t go for a college degree, it would be an early entry into Grayson Industries. Stiff suit, tight tie, miserable business lunches, pretty secretary. Buying and selling other businesses. Being cutthroat. Making billions.

It wasn’t Farrell’s scene. The secretary part sounded all right, but the rest didn’t interest him in the slightest.

He wished he knew what to do.

Isabelle Grayson’s small smile remained fixed on her lips. “Actually, it’s your father who’s insisting on this decision. It doesn’t really matter to me.”